


Like a Moth to a Flame

by Jeakat



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Human Nesta, Set after Wings and Ember, Smut, Wings and Ember
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:28:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27765244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeakat/pseuds/Jeakat
Summary: Nesta knows that the General is dangerous, yet she can’t escape the thoughts that plague her after their encounter in Wings and Ember. That night Nesta gives and allows herself to think of him.
Relationships: Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 4
Kudos: 58





	Like a Moth to a Flame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duskandstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskandstarlight/gifts).



> I want to say a massive thank you to Duskandstarlight for beta reading this and giving me such wonderful, thoughtful insight. This is infinitely better because of her input. Any mistakes are one hundred percent my own.

Nesta watched as those wide wings flapped powerfully; stretch of shadow on the sky that carried the insufferable fae far from her estate. She wondered why she could see him through the glamour. Why she could sense him even as his figure became a small blot in the distance.  
Blood thrumming in her veins—her pulse still a frenetic beat against her flushed skin—Nesta marched back to her room, determined to lose herself once more in the book she had been reading before his arrival.

Nesta hated that he had such a profound effect on her. That he knew it, too. In the way that all men who were attractive knew the hold they had on others. That she had bared her throat to him—stretched into his touch—was confirmation he didn’t need. It was mortifying in a way that had her pulse hammering for a different reason entirely. And he was fae. His senses more acute than any mans. She refused think of what he had been able to detect from her in those moments in front of the fireplace. No, she wouldn’t think of him at all.

Not thinking of him—the hulking bat, Cassian—lasted until that evening when Nesta slid under her sheets and stared at her ceiling as she chased sleep that would not come. In truth, she had spent most of dinner quiet—save for the scrape of cutlery on china, and Elain’s occasional attempts at conversation—trying her best to think of anything but the General. Of the gleam in eyes when he taunted her, the cocky smirk as he teased, his broad shoulders, what his muscles would look like, feel like, under those leathers. To no avail. Even her book had done little to distract her and now here Nesta was, going to bed early purely to avoid her own thoughts. It was infuriating and it was all his fault.

Why had he felt the need to push her buttons? To rile her and ask personal questions? What right did he have to permeate her thoughts still? He didn’t. Nesta could only hope that she had bruised his ego as much as she had bruised his most sensitive of areas.

Thinking of that was not helpful when she was trying to chase thoughts of him—and his effect on her—away. Not as she remembered that as her knee had connected with his balls, it swept up and brushed over something that was not nearly so soft or pliant. No, what she had felt was quite the opposite; the curve of her knee grazed over the firm, thick length of him.

It gave her a small measure of satisfaction to know he had been as affected by their encounter as much as she had. But it didn’t ease the restless agitation she felt now.

Rolling onto her side, Nesta’s face heated as she remembered what she said to him. She had told him she used her hand on herself. Reflecting back now she was mortified, but at the time all she could think of was getting under his skin. Because he made her feel like she was crawling out of hers. It had been a while since she had touched herself. Perhaps if she had taken the time to before today, Nesta would have been able ignore how his body seemed to call to her, like a moth to a flame. Push him away rather than hold still as he pressed into her.

She groaned, frustrated with herself as her hand—her traitorous hand—crept towards the juncture of her thighs. A part of her knew, try as she might to resist, that tonight was always going to end like this. Nesta could pretend—could try to think of someone else as she chased her release—but it would be a deception. And mostly likely fruitless, too. Because his face would not leave her alone. Even if she were able to imagine someone else, she was not sure her efforts would be successful. So, in the dark quiet of her bedroom—the same room she had been with him in hours earlier—she let herself imagine how differently things might have gone if she had just given in.

Beginning to rub herself in slow, almost tentative circles, Nesta remembered the heat of the Commander’s breath as his lips ghosted over the skin of her throat. He’d inhaled deeply, and it felt like he was trying to consume her. Like he was a hairsbreadth away from devouring her. Large hands had come to rest on her waist and it lit a fire within her. Nesta wanted those hands everywhere.

Nesta sucked in a sharp breath. She was wet now. Wet enough to increase her pace as she wondered what would have happened if she hadn’t panicked when Cassian’s tongue had reached to taste her. She would have moaned; she knew that much. That touch had electrified her, her nerves jumping to life at the sensation of it. He would have groaned in return. Maybe growl at her like he had when they first met weeks ago and bickered the entire time. The sound rumbling through his chest into hers as he pressed her back into the mantle. She would have gripped his head then, clutching him to her as she buried her fingers in his windswept hair. Tugging him tighter as he nipped and sucked her sensitive skin. His wings would unfurl to cocoon them in place. Create a small, dark sanctuary in which Nesta could indulge in her desires freely. Let him unravel her without her usual restraint.

One of his hands, large and calloused, would have gripped her hip, not hard enough to be painful, but strong enough to be possessive. It would have prevented Nesta from rolling her hips into him, against the hardness she could feel pressing against her stomach. The length she had got a mere hint of earlier with her knee. The thrill of it now making her heart hammer against her ribcage.

Holding her steady, his breath a rasp against her throat, he would glide his other hand up her torso slowly to cup and knead her breast. Nesta had caught him trying not to look at them earlier. Had felt a measure of satisfaction that her choice of dress had the desired effect. She had spent all morning selecting it, after all. Soft flesh would yield in his large palm effortlessly, though she knew he had to be holding back.

His mouth would kiss a path down her skin, down the soft fabric of her dress, to join his hand in its attention of her breast. Whispering praise over her tender flesh as he went. She would just catch, “Beautiful...Perfect…So fucking hot,” muttered onto her body in between wet, sensuous kisses. The words so indecent, she would grasp at his shoulders, the leather thick and unyielding against her tight grip.

Her body would thrum—as it was again now—with the tension between them, like a wire pulled taut. It usually made her feel like a rabbit caught in a snare, but now, as she dipped her fingers between her folds—pumping them delicately, yet firmly, into herself—it gave her a rush of heat. Of power—because she knew he felt it to. Whatever had driven them together earlier, was working its magic on her now.

Her legs were restless on the bed, the sheets smooth as she rocked against them, hips lifting to apply more pressure. It wasn’t easy to imagine her hands—fine boned and small—as his, different as they were, but she remembered the feel of them as he had cupped her face when he thought she was about to kiss him.

Panting, Nesta turned her head and whined against the pillow. Finally, finally, Cassian would break his contact on her skin and lift his head, those intense hazel eyes blown wide with the wild sort of lust she guessed he was capable of. He would crash his full lips against hers then, devouring her, body and soul, his tongue parting them with a swiftness that only came with knowing exactly what he was doing. And the taste of him? It would consume her. He would taste of the wind, crisp and sharp, and the rough wildness that was uniquely him. She would battle for dominance but she would lose, and then she would moan into his mouth. And he would love it. With a growl, he’d suck on her bottom lip, drawing it into the wet heat of his mouth before nibbling lightly. Cassian would have no trouble lifting her off the ground and striding to her bed then. 

Gently, he’d set her down on the edge of the mattress. He’d remain standing, looking down to her as his enormous chest heaved, rising and falling as he sucked in panting breaths.

“Tell me to stop,” he’d rasp, his voice low and guttural in the quiet of her room. “Nesta, tell me you don’t want this and I’ll stop.” 

Her breathing would be just as hard as his as she contemplated his words. She wasn’t sure if she was imagining them now because she wanted to think of Cassian holding himself back from having her, from taking what he wanted—because it was a tempting thought, having that much power over a male like him--or because deep down she knew that he would want her to feel safe with him. 

She had known that much earlier when he reigned in his rage so as not to frighten her. After he had sensed her fear somehow. And it was that that fuelled Nesta now, as she withdrew her fingers, slick with pleasure, and rubbed and pressed against her knot, lightly pulling before circling again. Her other hand, which had been gripping her inner thigh, found the swell of her breast, and she rolled the stiffened peak of her nipple between her fingers in time with her other movements. Twisting slightly every now and then for a quick burst of heady pleasure. Her breaths came in short, heavy pants against the pillow as she imagined the intensity of Cassian’s rage as it burned through him. Nesta couldn’t help but be drawn to it. Against her better judgement; he was fae--danger and threat and flame given form. It wasn’t safe for her to be captivated by him like this.

Yet she would not break eye contact with him—despite the intensity of his stare making her want to squirm and writhe—as she shook her head, not trusting her voice not to waiver. No, she did not want him to stop.

A dark eyebrow would rise high, “Is that a no, you don’t want this? Or a no, you don’t want to stop?” His low voice would rumble through her.

“The second one,” she would whisper, breathless—the way the characters in her books always seemed to be short of breath when things were about to heat up.

The General would smirk down at her then, his wings casting a shadow across the room, “Then get ready, Sweetheart.”

Nesta trembled as she pictured him reaching to rid himself of his weapons. Those long fingers would extend to the clasps that held his leathers in place, deftly unbuckling each one. Slowly though, so she could see how his fingers—so much thicker than hers—hooked and flexed as he went about divesting himself of his clothing. Oh, he would know exactly what he was doing to her with those considered, precise movements. As her blue eyes grew large and she pressed her thighs togethers, increasingly desperate for friction.

He’d chuckle as he finally rid himself of the top half of his leathers and his shirt, gently taking her shoulders and pushing her down into the mattress. She would admire the thick bands of muscle that stretched and contracted deliciously under the tan skin of his torso as he moved. The weight of him would be overwhelming as he climbed over her, but not uncomfortable, as he held himself above her on his forearms. His knees would nudge her legs apart, and she would easily allow it.

Now, Nesta’s breath came faster. It was harder to keep quiet as pressure started to build low in her gut. Her skin felt cold, her insides molten, as her hips canted into her palm. As she rocked into herself, gulping great breaths of air, sweat started beading on her hairline. She felt wild, a mess, but for once she couldn’t bring it upon herself to care. Not as she pictured the Commander of the Night Court armies above her, licking his full lips before he bent to taste her once more. His hair, pulled free of its binding with all her tugging, would frame his face and brush against her cheeks. She would lose herself in the kiss, rolling her hips up into him just as surely as she was to herself right now.

He would grunt and moan before wrapping an arm under her, pressing his forearm into her back as he reached down to squeeze the generous curve of her rear. Kneading the flesh there, he’d use his strength to pull her up off the mattress, bringing her flush with the dips and swells of his six-pack.

Tearing his lips from her, he’d say—no, tell her—his voice full of possibility, “I’m going to taste you now.”

Kissing and nipping at her throat, those clever hands would trail a fire down her body as he reached down to lift her skirts. She would curse the fullness of them then. They usually acted as her own suit of armour, a way to put distance between her and anyone who thought of getting too near. But she didn’t want them to be a barrier between her and Cassian. She didn’t want anything between them at all. She didn’t need it. Despite him being one of the most dangerous things she had ever encountered, she knew, from a place deep within her, that she was safe with him.

Bunching the material of her dress in his fist, he would expose her inch by inch, the air cool against her oversensitive flesh. Then he’d take hold of her underwear and slowly draw them down her legs as she quivered with want.

Like she was quivering now as she felt her release build, the pressure mounting as she stroked harder. Her bundle of nerves was firm under her touch now—pulsing as she circled and dipped—while she imagined Cassian lowering himself off the bed until he was kneeling before her. The sight of it would make her feel powerful, brazen even, and she would arch a brow as he took in the sight of her bared before him.

“So damn beautiful,” he would breathe, drinking her in as his broad palms stroked up and down her thighs, his touch feather light.

Nesta would arch a brow and ask, “Well, are you going to get on with it?”

There would be no bite behind the words, no real malice, but she would be surprised by how her voice sounded like it didn’t belong to her, husky with want and passion and lust.

He’d take it as a challenge, she knew he would.

The palms on her thighs would urge them further apart as he drank in the sight of her spread before him. Then his hands would slide under her, lifting her up like she was weightless as they travelled up her behind before grasping her hips from underneath and tugging, bringing her body down so her pelvis was at the end of the bed.

“Put your legs over my shoulders,” he would murmur on to the sensitive skin of her thighs as he brushed his nose up, up, up. She would comply, being careful to avoid his wings, and he would hum his approval on to her core before lowering his head to take one long lick of her.

Nesta’s breath was shaky now. It was harder to keep the image of him in her mind’s eye. Harder to focus on anything as she writhed helplessly. Her hand switched to her other breast, the nipple of the one she had been teasing was red and sore from her ministrations.

Cassian would tell Nesta how delicious she was, how perfect she was, and it would take her all not to buck up onto his absurdly handsome face. His mouth, curved in a wicked grin at her dishevelment, would find her sensitive bundle of nerves. Quickly finding a rhythm, he’d set a pace that had her squirming, chasing an impending, inescapable release. Not breaking contact, he would look up then, eyes locking with hers and—

Nesta’s climax rocked through her. Less a wave, more a wall of heat; an inferno that swept through her. She failed to stifle a gasp as her legs twitched with the sheer force of it. The intensity, unlike anything she had felt before, was something she had to climb down from; rubbing with less and less pressure before her hand finally fell away. Her breath took longer to return to her, loud in the sudden quiet of her room as her senses returned. The sweat helped to cool her forehead. Eventually she calmed down, though her body still felt boneless and hollow. Drifting somehow.

In the morning she knew she would be embarrassed, but right now Nesta didn’t have it in herself to care. And at least, with her clear dismissal of him earlier and the unlikeliness of the queens agreeing to a meeting, Nesta would probably never see the Commander again.


End file.
